Courage Inverted
by Feathersmoke
Summary: Not all Slytherins are bad. Not all Ravenclaws get good grades. Not all Hufflepuffs are kind. But most of all, not all Gryffindors are brave. Peter Pettigrew wasn't brave - in fact, he turned out to be the most cowardly of them all. 31st October, 1981 - Sirius and Peter POV. One-shot.


**Quick One-shot of Peter and Sirius' perspectives on _that_ night. If you read, hope you enjoy :) (Warning, generally dark and angsty).**

 **Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns everything.**

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 _Courage Inverted_

Peter had never been brave. That had never been his role in life – instead he's left that to his friends, playing the understudy to their play. Second fiddle to their orchestra.  
No, Peter had never been brave. That was his friends' did, not him.

Remus, who had a quiet bravery and was possibly the bravest of them all. His wasn't an obvious trait, not until you knew him. Not until you understood that month after month, year after year, he was forced to rip himself apart and put himself back together again and again. To have his bones crack and roll and reshape, his teeth to elongate and sharp canines to puncture his mouth. To have his very heart grow and pulse like a bruise in his chest, to make up for the large creature he would become. Peter had heard many times the melody of Remus' body breaking – and moulding into something distinctly un-Remus like. Remus, who would have to live life being spat on and kicked, demoted to one of the very lowest in society. Remus who had never been young, not really. He never had the chance.

Sirius, who never showed his bravery. In fact, everything he did was defiant, as if he was trying to shrug of this notion of nobility – perhaps missing that the more daring his acts became, the more courageous he seemed. Sirius, who acted like he couldn't and wouldn't care.  
Peter knew better though. He couldn't count the times he had woken up and heard the familiar cries in the night. They would echo round the freezing dorm and bounce off the frosted windows. Sirius would scream and sob, forgetting that he wasn't in Grimmauld Place anymore. Forgetting that he no longer had to fear his father's hand or be afraid to go downstairs in the morning. All the boys in the dorm would pretend they hadn't heard him, just listen to him rip back his curtains and sprint to the bathroom whilst they all sat there, barely breathing. Only one boy would go check on Sirius. There was only one who was allowed. In the morning, they would all act like nothing had happened, despite the deep purple shadows under everyone's eyes.

Or lastly, James. James, who may have been arrogant and a troublemaker, but who also cared deeply about everything. If something was wrong, James strove to fix it. He'd come up with the plan to become Animagi, the idea to get Peter a girlfriend in sixth year and he was the reason that Sirius no longer had to stay in an abusive home. James, who wore his heart and flaws, and his hopes and dreams on his sleeve. Who confided his deepest secret to three boys who he'd only just met after three days – his deepest secret being that he was deeply in love with a girl, who he'd also only just met three days prior. A secret which had then become extremely public knowledge, after James asked out said girl for the first time of many, just a week later. She had said no, of course, and would continue to do so for the next six years. But James was a fool, who loved deeply and who loved constantly. And, in the end, Lily Evans ended up loving him back.

Oh, James. He had been the one Peter looked up to the most. The one who had always listened to him when the others didn't and who had made him feel wanted – like he belonged.

James, who trusted the people he loved completely and who had never seen a reason to doubt his friends.

Yes, Peter wasn't brave. But his friends were.

Yet, Peter argued with himself, what he was doing took a kind of courage too. What he was willing to do to protect himself, alienating himself from all he knew. Never seeing his mother again. Betraying his friends.

It _was_ brave, Peter was sure of it, to embrace an animagus form completely, as he was doing. Peter Pettigrew, the rat. Only now did he see the irony of it.

His mother would miss him, but she would be safe.

He had decided Sirius would take the fall. Sirius was strong enough to withstand Azkaban. Not indefinitely, but Peter was sure that Sirius would be able to stand it better than anyone else. Or maybe he wouldn't – maybe he would lapse into the insanity that was infamous in the Black family. His cousin Bellatrix – a woman who terrified Peter – was absolutely mad. Occasionally the madness crept into Sirius' eyes too, he would laugh a little too hard or rage for too long.

And Remus? He would be broken by this, but Peter was consoled with the fact that Remus could mend. He would be alone, but Remus was kind and could perhaps… perhaps find solace among his own kind. Eventually the mental wounds would heal; after all, they couldn't be any worse than the physical ones he already bore.

As for James and Lily.

James and Lily.

Peter couldn't go there. He needed courage for this and thinking of them would make him weak. He found himself absently stroking his left sleeve, where the Dark Mark now lay hidden.

It was time.

He drew up his sleeve, and prepared to press down on the grinning skull tattoo.

And so, the end began.

* * *

Sirius was angry.

That was normal these days.

He was also shaking.

That really wasn't normal.

His head was pounding, pounding, pounding and tears were spilling over from his eyes and he was screwing his fists into his eyes, trying to force them back in.

That was really quite strange.

He looked down at the still smoking carpet, covered in debris from the walls. A teddy bear that he had bought his godson that had apparently been destroyed in the blast was facing him– he could see half of the head now, one eye staring at him strangely.

Try as he might, he couldn't keep his eyes away from the body on the floor.

His best friends were dead.

That was definitely, completely, utterly wrong. In fact, it must have been a sick joke, because there was no way that James and Lily were-

James and Lily.

But here they were.

And they were dead.

Suddenly, a scream of pure animal frustration tore out of his lungs, so loud and guttural that he thought it must have cut him on the way up through his throat, because a scream like that was made of nails and glass and hailstones. It was brittle, and sharp and could only cause you pain.

He kicked the wall, the sagging heap of plaster that had once been a part of a house. Behind the ash and rubble he could still make out the duck wallpaper that he and James had put up last spring, to surprise a heavily pregnant Lily.

He kicked the wall again, and again, and again.

Somewhere in his mind he registered the pain and that the great roars of agony he could hear were being torn from _his_ throat – but his mind was just numb. It was like he was in a terrible dream and couldn't wake up.

That, that right there. That was Lily. Her body. She was cold and blank and gone. There was no spark. Lily always had a spark – more of an inferno, actually. Her spirit had burned with an intensity that rivalled her hair: she had always been the first one to get his jokes, to understand his dry humour. The first one to know when Remus was in pain and needed a cup of tea and someone to talk to. The first to see that Peter was lonely and sometimes felt excluded. The first and only girl to be able to convince Sirius that she was good enough for his best mate.

Yes, Lily had always had a spark. It was gone now. In its place was cold, dead air and a pair of green eyes that used to dance with mirth, but now just stared at the cot her son had once occupied.

Somewhere in the distance, Sirius heard the distant rumble of a motorbike – his motorbike. He had given it to Hagrid gladly, had been glad to be able to help Harry one last time. After all, he wouldn't need the motorbike where he was going.

Too late, he realised he hadn't made sure Harry had his toy deer, the one that Sirius had bought him for his first birthday, along with a tiny broomstick. "Prongslet", Sirius had named the toy, much to James' displeasure. It was Harry's favourite thing to cuddle. He couldn't sleep without that deer. How would Harry sleep?

Sirius was meant to be Harry's godfather. To be the one that looked after him, to care for him. Instead, when he found him, he'd been screaming at the top of his lungs, staring at his dead mother and seemingly oblivious to the great, ugly scar that had been carved into his head, a trickle of blood slowly seeping out of it.

Now Sirius would never see Harry again.

He stumbled down the stairs, away from Lily, practically falling over his feet until he got to the bottom and he eased himself down next to James' body.

"Don't worry, mate," he whispered, stroking back the mop of raven hair from the blank, empty eyes. "Don't you worry, James Potter, you hear me? I'll be seeing the two of you soon enough."

He suddenly had a thought and he rifled through James' pockets before retrieving the twin to his own mirror (he wasn't sure why), before the enormity of what he had just done hit him and he threw himself onto the body, hugging it tightly. Another half-scream escaped his throat.

Deep breaths. In, and out. In, and out.

He couldn't lose himself now. He had something he needed to do.

With that, he let go of his best friend's body, strode towards the front door and walked out. The air outside was freezing and his breath formed great clouds of white in front of him.  
He stood there for a beat, then set out with a purpose, which only he could carry out.

Sirius Black wouldn't see his family ever again. For that he was grateful.

Sirius would never again set foot in Godric's Hollow. For that he was mournful.

No, Sirius Black had decided this. He would not live to see the next night draw.

But neither would Peter Pettigrew.

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 **Thank you for reading xx**


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